when all was so exquisite, it is difficult to indicate particular parts. She excelled in all."
That is the tribute of one great artist of the drama to another.
It will be noticed that the characters above enumerated by Mr. Wallack, are all purely legitimate comedy, that the plays of which they are part, require for their production an order of talent so high, that they are no longer seen upon the stage in this country, except in one or two theatres, such as Selwyn's of Boston and Wallack's of New York, and the company of the latter house can alone properly represent them. Not long ago it was different. We cannot believe that the present generation of New York play-goers will forget the brilliant casts of the old English comedies at Burton's Theatre, which often embraced the names of Charlotte Cushman, Mrs. Charles Matthews, Burton, Walcott, Matthews, Charles Fisher and Brougham; or at Laura Keene's new house, where nightly might be seen Rufus Blake, Joseph Jefferson, Couldock, Old Peters, vixenish Polly Marshall and Laura Keene, tallest and fairest of women; or even in provincial Philadelphia, at the old Arch Street house, in which Burton had once come to grief financially, followed by handsome Ned Conner, to sink a fortune and to make way for the great Wheatley and Drew combination, who for an entire season played to crowded houses but two plays, "The Serious Family," and "The Comedy of Errors," and among whom might be seen, William Wheatley, John Drew, J. Sleeper Clarke, E. L. Davenport, J. W. Wallack, Jr., John Gilbert, Mrs. Drew, née Mossop, Mrs. D. P. Bowers, beautiful Mrs. Gladstone, Mrs. Davenport and Mrs. Gilbert.
Those were the great days of the Drama, and these are great names, and if they could all be brought together for one night, we would all try to see them at no matter what prices. They should play "Macbeth," with Charlotte Cushman—greater than any since the Siddons—as the Thane's Wife, and for interlude, "The School for Scandal," with Laura Keene as Lady Teazle and John Gilbert as Sir Peter, followed by "Hamlet," with Mr. Davenport as the Dane, while Burton and Clarke should play the grave-diggers. Then, we think, we should ask for one night more, if only to see Blake as Jesse Rural, or pretty Polly Marshall as Captain Charlotte, or Jefferson as Bob Acres, or Mrs. Drew as Beatrice.
Not one of us all would remain away from that performance, and the night of it would be held forever in blessed memory. But in the meantime, no matter how remotely we may live from the metropolis of the nation, we must all go to Wallack's to obtain a glimpse of old English Comedy, or a hint of how nobly we were entertained at the theatre only a few years ago. Yet we will see there no more the "house's prop," the soul of comedy, gentle Mary Gannon.
She had been dying for a long time, and knew it. Early in the present season, she saw the end approaching, and regretted that her failing strength no longer permitted her to please, as once she had done, the refined audiences who were made glad at her entrance. The last time she played in "The Captain of the Watch," she told her old comrades—and some of them had seen her grow from childhood up—that she had felt death touch her; that she must soon leave them to put her house in order, and lay aside forever the cap and bells of comedy.
On the 27th of January of this present year, she played Mary Netley, in Robertson's and Artemus Ward's comedy of "Ours;" and when the sombre green curtain fell that night it had shut her out forever from that brilliant public whom, for thirty honorable, arduous years, she made merry and happy.
